I remember sitting in Sunday school every Sunday of every February and
learning about Black History Month. The teachers would talk about
everything from Harriet Tubman’s escapades on the Underground Railroad
and Frederick Douglass’ journey out of slavery and into freedom, to
Martin Luther King’s civil rights activism and the murder of Emmett
Till, a story that always managed to bring out a special kind of fear in
me.

As I grew older, I started hearing the same Sunday school Black
History lessons in my actual history classes. But even then, all these
lessons were just stories to me. Simply history.

As much as the African-American community tried to make my generation
aware of racism, it was dead to me. The world seemed like a completely
different place than it did back in those days. The most racist thing to
me was a white person using “the N word” and that wasn’t even too
serious to me, personally. We didn’t drink from separate water fountains
or anything like that.

In fact, I got more hell from black people than I did white people. I
was being taught that black people need to unite and support each
other, but the black people in the real world ridiculed me for having my
pants secured at my waist (or SLIGHTLY below) with a belt; called me a
nerd for reading Harry Potter instead of watching BET.

I felt so shunned from the black community. The only black friends I
had were either friends from church or other black kids who were similar
to me. But my white friends were so nice to me that racism wasn’t even a
thought in my mind.

In high school, I branched out and my friends became much more
colorful, and I developed a strong equal view of every human being. Of
course I had encountered small incidents of “racism,” but I could find a
logical view behind all of these incidents. It still didn’t look like
racism to me. People were just people, regardless of their ethnicity.

When I started dating, I usually dated whoever I could come across
that would appreciate my company. In my junior year of high school, I
met my current girlfriend (we’ll call her Mary), who became the first
white girl I would ever date. As soon as we started becoming close, the
images and the stories of Emmett Till crept into my mind. But she
assured me everything would be okay. I met her parents and they both
seemed to like me; I even spoke to them at her softball games.

We started dating on May 31, 2012, the day after her birthday. There
were very few interracial couples in my community, so this relationship
felt so special.

However, looking back at everything now, I was so naive. Young, dumb,
and blinded by love. I should have been able to read the signs. After
about 10 months of dating, we had gone out in public very few times,
there was always an excuse for why I couldn’t come to her house, she
tended to avoid any direct contact with me on Twitter, she posted very
few pictures of us together on her Instagram, and she couldn’t even do
the grand march at my senior prom with me because she was “too nervous.”

But her kisses were sweet, her eyes sparkled in the sunlight, and we were hopelessly devoted to each other.

Then, sh*t got real.

My mother came to the school one day and pulled me out of my guitar
class. She said Mary’s dad called her at her office and he was PISSED.
He made it clear that he didn’t want me anywhere near his daughter and
that he would die for his kids. He said that he wasn’t part of the Klan
but he “knew people,” he knew what I drove, and he knew where we lived. I
had never heard my mother curse before this day, and I will never
forget her words: “Leave the white girl alone before you around and
get your black ass killed.” And she was serious as a heart attack. Both
my parents and I took this man’s comments as a threat to my life.

Mary and I were devastated. I wouldn’t wish that feeling upon my
worst enemy. She didn’t understand how the situation felt to me because
she wasn’t in danger. No matter how much she said he was “just making
noise,” he was a serious threat to me. She was saying one thing, but
other adults who actually knew her father would talk to me and tell me
how crazy he was and that I should take his threats seriously.

Several people, black and white, told me about a situation similar to
my own that happened in my hometown about 23 years before that involved
Mary’s father and some of his cousins. And the result ended in a black
boy being beaten, having his testicles cut off, and shot. There was
never a trial.

Racism was real to me.

Nothing was the same for a while. I couldn’t go out in public alone, I
couldn’t go to any sporting events because he would more than likely be
there, and I had to let my parents know my whereabouts at all times.

Our breakup lasted about 2 days, but I couldn’t continue to pretend
that I didn’t miss Mary. We found ways to communicate. We got cell phone
apps that worked around blocked numbers, we passed notes in the
hallways, we found teachers we could trust and we met in their
classrooms, even if it was just for a hug and a “have a good day;” and
we secretly continued our relationship. I was foolish for risking my
life for one girl when there are a million others, but I would also be
foolish if I let myself cut ties with someone who made me so happy.

Eventually, after laying low for a few months, everything calmed down
on my end, but Mary pressed assault and battery charges against her
father for physically abusing her, something that I was completely
unaware of. He was forced by the law to move out and he is still waiting
for his trial. I was by her side through every step of her emotional
process.

Today, even though I am in college about 120 miles away from my
hometown, I come home to a warm welcome from Mary and her mother. We are
able to visit each other freely and our relationship has finally come
to the point where we have always wanted it. We go out on dates, we go
out to eat, we have minor arguments, and we kiss and make up; everything
normal couples do.

We have been together for 16 months, and we’re still counting. I
don’t know if I mistook my bravery for idiocy, but I don’t regret any of
my decisions.

"the most racist thing to
me was a white person using “the N word” and that wasn’t even too
serious to me, personally. We didn’t drink from separate water fountains
or anything like that.

In fact, I got more hell from black people than I did white people. I
was being taught that black people need to unite and support each
other, but the black people in the real world ridiculed me for having my
pants secured at my waist (or SLIGHTLY below) with a belt; called me a
nerd for reading Harry Potter instead of watching BET."

My mother came to the school one day and pulled me out of my guitar
class. She said Mary’s dad called her at her office and he was PISSED.
He made it clear that he didn’t want me anywhere near his daughter and
that he would die for his kids. He said that he wasn’t part of the Klan
but he “knew people,” he knew what I drove, and he knew where we lived. I
had never heard my mother curse before this day, and I will never
forget her words: “Leave the white girl alone before you around and
get your black ass killed.” And she was serious as a heart attack. Both
my parents and I took this man’s comments as a threat to my life.

....

We have been together for 16 months, and we’re still counting. I
don’t know if I mistook my bravery for idiocy, but I don’t regret any of
my decisions.

Since I read this the other day I can only hope and pray that a few of his college classes will open his eyes and he will be re-educated before he gets strung up on a tree somewhere.

He made it clear that he didn’t want me anywhere near his daughter and that he would die for his kids. He said that he wasn’t part of the Klan but he “knew people,” he knew what I drove, and he knew where we lived

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